


Last days of the last war

by Slant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Existentialism, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slant/pseuds/Slant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the previous war ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last days of the last war

There is a mighty magical struggle in the bierkeller. Spells whizz and pop and bang and wizards and the creatures they have won to their cause struggle for mastery. You enter, stepping through spilt Hefeweizen. You are here for one of the allies.  
You scan the overturned tables and scattered chairs. Your gaze stops at a mysterious hooded figure. It turns its empty gaze towards you and you feel a chill in the seat of your consciousness. A premonition of your inevitable demise.  
"Oh no! I am experiencing the anguish of living a brief live in an Absurd world," you say.  
"However could I go on without my," you raise your hands to make air-quotes, "positive feelings?" you sing-song.  
You wait a moment to let the sarcasm sink in.  
"Prisoner of Unmeaning! I create the purpose of my life with an effort of will!" you say, eyes bulging. Specks of spittle fly from your jaws and join the filth of its robe.  
"Nietzsche!" yells Grindelwald in sudden, horrified recognition. The echoing reverberation of spell fire ceases.  
"Gesundheit," you say, in the ringing silence.  
You focus unblinkingly into the empty eye sockets. The dementor cringes back.  
"Albus!" shouts Grindelwald, "Don't let them..."  
You pull off your wax mask. He trails off. It is too late.  
You grab the dementor by the rotting fabric of its cloak, slime oozing over your digits and drag it obscenely close. You latch your mouth parts around the gaping hole of its maw and suck.  
The robe crumples wetly to the floor. You replace the mask.  
You turn to the wizards. One in a rumbled brown suit, the other in something designer-sharp with polished leather. Both pale and trembling. Both with wands raised. They are no longer attacking each other.  
"Sobbing in a dark place, with notes of blackcurrant and mildew," you say.  
"Not so rich and complex as a truly Dark wizard," you state.  
"I shall let you age," you declare.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone works out what this is about can they please tell me?


End file.
